


And All My Armor Falling Down In A Pile At My Feet

by sansbanshees



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Custom Female Trevelyan, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Light At the End Of the Tunnel, Porn with Feelings, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever else she feels, and despite the shadows that cloak his purpose here, she is glad; to see him, to know for certain that he’s alive, to feel the familiar shiver racing down her spine at the sound of his voice.</p><p>(Trespasser DLC spoilers ahead.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When she hears his voice as she weaves through the labyrinth of stone qunari there to greet her once she’s through the Eluvian, Mal Trevelyan becomes certain of two things.

First, that it is Solas, and not a ploy to cloud her judgement as she’d assumed. By all counts, it made sense to her to think so, though she’s never let on to anyone that there is weakness there to exploit—Bull is an observant man, he’d have puzzled it out long ago, probably before she did, and would have reported such a thing to his superiors in the days before that bridge was burned. And perhaps it was easier, letting herself believe it a ploy, rather than an actual possibility, because her hopes had been dashed by one too many false leads in the months directly following his disappearance to let them build now.

Second, whatever else she feels, and despite the shadows that cloak his purpose here, she is _glad_ ; to see him, to know for certain that he’s alive, to feel the familiar shiver racing down her spine at the sound of his voice. There has been no sign of him since Corypheus’s defeat, no word, no trace, almost as if he never existed at all, save the things he’d left behind at Skyhold, and Mal… she’s missed him. She’s still angry, still confused at his abrupt exit, but she’s missed him.

It comes as no surprise, the ease in which the Viddasala is neutralized when Mal stumbles upon them, turned to stone without even the appearance of effort on his part. It should shock her, that he’s capable of such a feat, but years spent serving as the Inquisitor have dulled her ability to be surprised so severely, it nearly doesn’t exist at all, and so she marches past the spectacle she’s witnessed without remark, the whole of her focus on the elf ahead of her as he approaches the Eluvian, hands clasped behind his back.

“Solas—”

He turns in time to see her falter, her fingers clutching uselessly at her arm as the anchor surges with power that burns through her like liquid fire in her veins, immeasurably worse than the last time and long past a pain she can silently grit her teeth through.

Something flashes in his eyes as he looks down at her and just as quickly as the mark flared up, it calms to a manageable tingle of pins and needles. She rises up on shaky legs and lets her arm fall to her side now that the surge is past.

“That should give us more time,” he says, and though the smile he offers is heavy with sadness, there is affection in it that can’t be mistaken. “I suspect you have questions.”

“Just one, really.” She tilts her head, matching his smile with a small one of her own, just as heavy with things she’s never allowed herself to say, though a good deal more lopsided due to the swelling in her lip after so much fighting to even reach him. “What did you do with the armor? That was my third best set you ran off with.”

He feigns affront entirely too well, eyes narrowing as he looks her over. “Third best?”

“Of course. Dorian has always gotten the very best, Vivienne the second best, you the third, and me whatever’s left. That’s how it works. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, and it pains me to disillusion you like this, but I… I play favorites. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”

He sighs. “That is disappointing. Unsurprising, but disappointing.”

It’s entirely too easy, falling into old, comfortable roles like this, and she has as much appreciation now for that dry humor as she ever did, so much that it’s impossible to keep from chuckling, but it’s short-lived, pulling too painfully at the split in her lip to continue. She reaches up on reflex, pressing the tips of her fingers into the throbbing ache she’s made of the wound.

“Inquisitor,” he says, brushing her hand aside to replace it with his own, his thumb smoothing gently over the damage. “Let me.”

He must know by now that there isn’t much she won’t let him do when it comes to her, but just in case it’s unclear, she tries to say as much with the softness in her eyes when she looks into his since her lips are otherwise occupied, awash in the gentle warmth of healing magic.

When it’s done, his touch lingers, and she reaches up to cover his hand with her own. “Inquisitor?” She shakes her head, her smile small, but fond. “I think we’re past formality at this point, don’t you?”

“So we are.” He withdraws slowly, clasping his hands behind his back once more, holding himself so carefully, purposefully distant, as if it’s a struggle not to seek contact. “Ask what you will, my friend.”

Her sigh is long-suffering, and she shakes her head again at this nonsense refusal of his to ever actually use her name. “You’re impossible.”

He smiles again, and she’s relieved to see that it’s at least a _little_ lighter than the last one. “So I have been told.”

Two years, she’s been waiting for this opportunity, and now that the time has come for questions that might actually receive answers, none particularly leap out at her as the clear first choice. The most pertinent are obvious, and she should care more to ask them, she _should_ , a Qunari invasion using elvhen magical transport is exactly the sort of thing one should grill a source about when all of southern Thedas is at stake, but it’s over, and something tells her that Solas controls the Eluvians, truly controls them, now that the threat here has been eliminated. Whatever else may happen, the Qunari won’t be using this route again.

“Where have you _been_?” It surprises her, the anger in her voice as the question comes out. So it can still happen, after all. “Two years, and no word from you? It takes a Qunari invasion to make you think _Huh, maybe I ought to drop a note, check in with my friend_ s? Interesting choice, by the way, using a dead Qunari warrior to say hello. Most people would use parchment.” She moves forward, crowding into his space, and though he seems to be taking the hurt in her voice to heart, he doesn’t retreat. “Leliana found the village you said you were from. It’s a ruin. Ancient. No one has been _from_ there for literal ages.”

She waits, pausing the torrent of questions to give him room to speak, room he does not take, as if he’s waiting for her to finish in her own time. It’s almost funny, considering that he must know as well as she does that her time is in such short supply. The anchor has seen to that, and she can’t begin to imagine how long it will take to strike again after his intervention. Moments? Hours? Days? The very thought saps the heat from her anger and leaves her more tired than she has felt in years.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? Who you really are, whether you’ve been working for this Fen’Harel the whole time or not. You helped us. You helped _me_. I owe you for that.”

“No. Whatever victories you’ve had, you’ve earned. You owe me nothing.” He shakes his head, brows drawn down in determination, as if the defeat in her voice alone has spurred him towards speech. “This is not the end. Not yet.”

“It is for me.” She breaches protocol entirely, crosses carefully held boundary lines in one fell swoop as her marked hand reaches out to squeeze what she can of his arm in a show of assurance that she bears him no true ill will, hidden as it is behind him. “You might be able to delay it, like before, but even you can’t stop it, can you?”

“The mark you bear was bestowed upon you by the orb of Fen’Harel,” he says, posture relenting as he takes her hand in his, “My orb.”

“ _Oh_.” It occurs to her that she ought to pull away, take a step back, and then another for good measure. She’s learned a different side to the story of Fen’Harel on this journey, but she’d heard the common iteration of it from Morrigan, read a paltry summary of it in a tome on the elvhen pantheon at Skyhold’s library before their visit to Mythal's Temple. It was… _terrible_ , and even that seems a massive understatement. She never thought to ask Solas about it—he claimed not to believe in the elvhen gods, at least, not as _Gods_ , and spoke surprisingly little of them. Small wonder, that. “You’re Fen’Harel.”

“I was Solas first.” He watches her carefully, and if he’s waiting for a judgement of some kind, he’ll need to let a few more facts trickle through before she feels confident in her ability to make one. As it is, she’s a bit stuck on the ancient elvhen god part. “Fen’Harel came later… an insult I took as a badge of pride.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Mal can’t help the stilted laugh that escapes at his confession, the contrary adoption of a name meant to slight him such a Solas thing to do that the ancient elvhen god part isn't much of a hurdle, after all. “That does sound like you.”

How he can look so exasperated and so fond of her all at once is beyond her comprehension, but he somehow manages, even now, with such a damning card on the table. She has a feeling it isn’t the only one he’ll be laying out, but it’s a comfort, the reminder that he’s still Solas, that he always has been, even before their paths crossed. “You know me well.”

“Of course I do.” She brings her marked hand up to loop her fingers gently around his wrist while the other remains encased between his. “You don’t love someone without knowing the bones of who they are. Particularly if those bones are as arrogant and contrary as yours.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but his expression still shifts towards grim. “You would not say so if you knew the entirety of it, vhenan.”

She bristles at that immediately, intent to disabuse him of the notion. “Yes, I would. What you’ve done, what you’re doing here now, it _matters_ , but I still—” And all at once, she has to stop, backtrack to the moment before she spoke. He called her something, a word she’s not heard before, she nearly missed it entirely, set as she was on arguing her point. “What did you… What does that mean?”

“That I know you, vhenan, just as you know me,” he says, reaching up to take her face between his hands. It isn’t precisely gentle, his touch, nor the way he tilts her head back to align her gaze with his, and she trembles beneath the heady weight of all that focus. “That I admire you, every persistent, headstrong, exasperating inchof you, more than I ever could have anticipated, and I… I would know what it is to have you, just once, even if only for a moment, if you would have me.”

“If I would... Maker’s breath, Solas, don’t you know how long I’ve wanted—”

True to his claim of knowing her, he anticipates the disbelief she can’t help but voice, always talking, forever _talking_ when everything she wants is right in front of her, and she thoroughly approves of the distraction he chooses, though the suddenness of it still surprises her, makes her gasp as he drags her closer and slants his mouth to hers, the union of their lips not so much a kiss as a blaze of fire finally lit, waning embers roaring to life after so much time left to sustain themselves on the whims of drafts alone. She melts into him then, grasping at whatever she can reach, one hand curling around the back of his neck while the other burrows fingers into the fur adorning his shoulder.

They stumble backwards in their fervor, his hands rucking up the skirt of her robes, tugging at her smallclothes until they bunch at her knees, and she gasps again when she feels his fingers tracing up the seam of her cunt, buries her face into the fur he wears and keens a broken whine when he delves between her folds, skimming down to slip two fingers inside of her. He thrusts them slowly, a languid, easy confidence to each motion as he gathers the slick that’s pooling there only to abruptly change course, dragging the tips of his fingers back up to press against her clit while she all but sobs at the pleasure of it.

“The _heat_ of you,” he whispers, awe tangled up in the hushed sound of his voice as he bends down to press his lips beneath her ear. “ _Lasa em tua rosas’da’din, vhenan_.”

“ _Please_...” But what she’s begging for, Mal has no idea. Something, anything, _more_ , all three and then some. “I, I need—”

She needs so much, but for all her love of words, she can find none to articulate it, a hiccuping laugh escaping at her useless, no good brain as she all buts climbs him in her desperation, trapping his hand between them at an awkward angle when she pulls herself up. He falters under the sudden weight of her, stumbles backwards, and the entire world _literally_ drops away as they pass through the Eluvian that had loomed active behind them.

She yelps in surprise, every muscle going rigid at the sudden shift of the world, clinging to him like a limpet. He struggles to hold onto her with the hand that isn’t currently trapped between her legs when they come out the other side, and while Mal almost laughs when she realizes what’s happened, Solas _does_ , presumably at her, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it.

Her answering huff is more amusement than indignance. It’s only fair, really; she’s laughed at him once or twice over the years of their acquaintance, after all, but it isn’t in her take it with passive acceptance, either. “You  _ass_."  


The smile he favors her with as he tugs his hand free from between them is the warmest she’s ever seen from him, and only a little smug. “And yet, you do not seem surprised.”

“Not even a little.”

She wraps her arms around him and pulls him closer, pressing her lips to his as he bears them both down to the ground of this new terrain they find themselves in. He leans forward to lay her down in the grass, moving in to crowd her thighs apart and settle between them, shedding the pieces of her armor as if he’d done it a thousand times before, urgency undiminished by the brief interruption.

Contrary to what she’d anticipated, his proves easy enough to remove as well, her fingers pulling loose what pieces they can until she finds pale, freckled skin, and she wastes no time in smoothing her hands up and over the expanse of his shoulders, meeting every kiss as the need in her builds with every layer shed.

In the end, it simply takes too long, and her whole body shivers when he reaches down to take hold of her ankle and bend her leg far enough at the knee to wrench her smallclothes down past the heel of her boot and off of her foot, the obstacle they posed sufficiently removed, and then he’s gathering her up at the waist, pulling them both back until she’s settled in his lap, legs spread wide around him, skirts bunched at her waist. She feels him there immediately, the heat of his cock bobbing up against her, and she rolls her hips to find the friction they both need, mouth falling open and eyes screwing shut at the thrum of pleasure in her clit as it glides along the skin of his shaft.

His fingers burrow into the dark mass of her hair, the already loose twist of it coming undone at the disturbance and spilling down past her shoulders, and he tugs at what he holds to pull her head back, leaning in to nip at her chin, at the warm column of her throat, teeth dragging at the jut of her collarbone. “Don’t stop.”

Helpless to do anything but obey the command, she finds a slow rhythm, her breath coming out in soft pants at each roll of her hips, back arching as his fingers trace up the length of her spine only to curl tight around the nape of her neck, urging her closer to bring their mouths together once more.

Her lips part for him, full and yielding, tongue sweeping past his teeth to glide along the heat of his. He settles a hand at the swell of her hip, feeling her rhythm rather than guiding it, swallowing her moans and sighs as eagerly she swallows his.

“ _Solas_ —” She whimpers his name in warning. It’s too much, the slick slide of him between her legs, too much, yet _exactly_ enough, and she trembles at the heat coiling low in her belly, close to undone.

He presses his brow to hers, and she tries to kiss him, but he shakes his head, evading her attempt. “No,” he says it gently, the hand at her hip urging her to move faster now. “I want to see you.”

Every sensation sharpens to a fine edge at the knowledge that he’s watching so closely, every tremble, every shudder, every choking sob under his scrutiny, and if she thought it was too much before, it’s unbearable now, pleasure sparking bright on every inch of her skin, coiled so tight inside her that it’s fit to snap, and then she hears him speak, the whisper of a word, yet another she’s never heard him say before.

“ _Mal_...”

The reverence with which he says her name -not Inquisitor, not friend, not even his newest endearment that she still doesn’t know the precise meaning of, but her name—it snaps everything into focus and she fights desperately to hold his gaze even as she shakes apart with a bitten back cry, heat rushing outward so fast she thinks she’ll burst.

He holds her through it all, and when it’s over, she finds herself laid out once more, Solas kneeling between her thighs and taking himself in hand, his cock flushed dark, precome welling at the tip. She reaches down with one hand to pull at the fabric that's fallen to her hips, hiking it higher for a better view, the other joining his to guide his cock in to nudge at her folds, and then he’s pressing into her, stretching and filling her so completely that she could swear she feels him everywhere.

“Solas, _Maker_ —”

Her head falls back, breath coming in jerky gasps as he rocks into her, the tug of his foreskin inside of her so good she nearly _cries_. Her hips snap up in time with his thrusts, fucking him as much as he’s fucking her, heels digging into his ass to pull him in harder, deeper, and if the soles of her boots are causing him any pain, scraping at him the way they do, he doesn’t seem to care.

Before long, he’s the one struggling for composure, shivering and groaning into her mouth with each pump of his hips, and despite her own failing control, she takes advantage of the situation and pushes at his shoulders, rolling them over until she’s seated on top of the long sprawl of his body.

“I want to see you, too” she lifts up, reaching down to guide the slick length of his cock back into her, “ _Hear_ you...” 

And hear him she does when she clenches tight around him once he’s filling her again; he growls like a cornered animal, fingers digging into her hips with such desperation that she’s sure there’ll be bruises there for weeks once this is over.

She understands it now, why he wanted to watch her, what he wanted to see; it’s breathtaking, the play of pleasure across his face, the way his eyes squeeze shut as if to shut out any distractions, the clench in his jaw as a stilted moan catches in his throat, all for her, because of her. She’s so taken by every moment of it that she forgets herself entirely, but he hasn’t forgotten her at all, and she gasps with a start when he wrenches her down at the same time he's pushing up, setting a hard pace she struggles to meet, her hand reaching back to curl her fingers beneath his thigh for leverage.

He kneads at the swell of her breast, rolling the hardened peak of her nipple between his fingers, and she whines behind clenched teeth at the sharp burst of heat it brings, scratching blunt nails down his chest, faint red lines rising in their wake.

It's falling apart quickly, the rhythm they've built, his breath coming in quick, ragged bursts, fingers squeezing fast and loose at her hip only to let go abruptly and curve up and around to catch at the ends of her hair, dig into the soft skin of her back and drag a shaky path downward.

“ I _can’t_ , I’m sorry, it’s been-”

He chuckles—at himself, she thinks—the sound of it low and desperate as his head drops back to bare the elegant line of his throat, and she tumbles forward to press her lips to the wild pulse that beats there. He wraps his arms around her, crushes the weight of her to his chest, hips stuttering up one last time, and the shudder that wracks him when he comes is _violent_ , shaking even in his voice as he moans into her hair.

They don’t stay that way for long—he rolls them to their sides and slips his hand down between them to trace soft, idle patterns on and around her clit until she’s coming again, a diffusion of warmth that makes her sigh as he kisses the poorly healed bridge of her nose, the deep scar above her eye and the knick below it.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, closing his eyes as his brow comes to rest against hers, “And I do not deserve—”

“Too bad,” she interrupts before he can finish, her voice a low, lazy murmur; still present enough to take him to task, but only just. “You have me.”

“There is still much I have not told you…”

“So tell me.”

More of the story trickles out in halting pieces; who he’s been, what he’s done, and every word of it sinks like lead in her chest. Her heart breaks for him, for the weight of sadness like a mantle on his shoulders that he’ll never be able to take off, but not half so much as for those he claimed to do it for. With heartbreak, however, rises a new, simmering wave of hurt and anger. What he’s withheld, his part in how the breach came to be, _letting_ the Venatori take the orb so Corpyheus could do what he could not… Had he shared it in the beginning, he would have been killed outright—if that was even _possible_ —with no opportunity to provide greater context. She knows that, and understands his reluctance then, but once he knew her, once trust had been built… Did he really believe she wouldn’t have _understood_?

Warring emotions aside, there is still more to hear, she’s certain of it. What’s past can only be prologue. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, wouldn’t have taken the Eluvians, wouldn’t have disappeared once Corypheus was no longer a threat. “And what will you do now?”

She has no way of knowing what his answer will be, but there is something waiting around the bend, she can feel it as sure as she feels the heat of his skin against her own. Whatever he’s planning, it won’t be small. It won’t be simple.

“The only thing I can.” He says it quietly, shifting his head to look away from her. “There is some hope of restoration, but in so doing… it would bring about the destruction of this world.”

For a moment, Mal doesn’t say anything. She can only look at him as he looks away, his arm loosening its hold around her as if to offer a means of escape. She doesn’t move away entirely, but she does draw back enough to gain the distance she needs to see the pieces slotting into place for the truth that they reveal.

“You mean to take down the veil.”

It isn’t a question.

He _does_ look at her now, and while his eyes are laden with guilt, resignation glows dimly beneath it. “Yes.”

“What would have happened if Corypheus _had_ died at the conclave? If you’d reclaimed your orb?”

Even knowing the answer, she still wants to hear him say it.

She wants him to hear _himself_ say it.

To his credit, Solas does not waver; his honesty is unflinching. “I would have entered the fade using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the veil. As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time… the world of the elves.”

“And now?”

“Can be no different from then.”

Her eyes drift shut, and she sinks back down beside him. For a time, there are no words. What can she say? That she’ll stop him? That he was right, she’s heard the truth and despises him for it? Neither are true. The Inquisition will rally to stop him once they know, and they’ll do it without her, whether they want to or not. Whatever happens after she leaves this place, if she leaves this place, his mark will make short work of her ability to mount any effort herself, even if she sought to. Perhaps she should despise him for that, if nothing else. If only he’d planned it this way, she might be able to bring herself to.

But he didn’t.

Chance, ill fortune, a cruel sort of providence—it could be any of those things, or none of them, and while it is undeniably his fault, this was never his intention. She doesn’t despise him, but she is afraid. For this world, for the people in it. For herself. For him.

“You don’t need to destroy this world, Solas. The people you’ve helped, the friends you’ve made… Seek them out. Be _amongst_ them, not apart from them. Let them prove it to you.” The anchor swells with energy renewed, not yet alight, but it will be soon enough, and she curses the timing of it, that it would choose now to do this. Her fingers tense and curl in towards her palm as pain lances through the arm that bears it. “Set your plans aside for a, a month, a year, give them a _chance_.”

“I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again,” he says, unquestionably earnest—he means that, every word of it, and yet it may not be enough, “But you seek to delay the inevitable.”

Her answering smile is weak, thin enough to be taken for the wince that it should be in the plume of green light growing slowly brighter. “You, of all people, should know that nothing is inevitable.”

“You were.” He reaches up to smooth her hair back away from her face, fingers cupping the back of her head for a brief moment, gaze shifting downward to the crackles of energy that arc from her hand. “And we are running out of time.”

She nods, and whether it’s acceptance or a play at reassuring herself, she isn’t sure. Both, perhaps. Her heart pounds the same frantic beat, either way. “I know.”

“Take my hand.”

She doesn’t hesitate in letting her fingers slip in to fill the spaces between his. Circumstances may change around them, but other things never will. “Will it hurt?” She searches his face for any sign of a falsehood meant to soothe her, a sign she already knows she won’t find. Whatever his answer, it will be the truth.

“No more than it already has,” and though there is the slightest waver to his voice, his eyes do not leave hers. “But you will survive it. I told you, this is not the end. Not yet.”

Hope seems a dangerous thing to let blossom now, but she feels it unfurling all the same. “And the anchor?”

“Will burden you no longer. But your arm...” A mournful look passes over his face, and she feels his fingers clench around hers. “You have borne the mark for too long, and I was not powerful enough to take it from you when it might have made a difference. I’m sorry, vhenan.”

  
It isn’t what she expected, not at all, but she always knew there would be no coming out of this unscathed. She closes her eyes, swallows hard around the knot forming in her throat. What must happen, and what it means for her… Now is not the time, now is never the time, there is still too much to do, and the magic searing its way up her veins will wait no longer. 

“Go on, then. Do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Skyhold is all but empty when Mal returns to it for what will be the last time. The Inquisition is disbanded, it's people gone back to their lives before the chaos Corypheus had brought. Only stragglers remain, and they slip out the gates once their belongings are packed, their horses readied, and their eyes on the road ahead.

It stirs a sadness in her, the finality of it, that everything they’ve worked so hard to build is so quickly dismantled, but in the end, it was always meant to happen this way. Their original purpose is done, and the world has no more need of the Inquisition as it has existed until recently. This new threat, its efforts kept so carefully to the shadows—even now, for she’s spoken to no one of her time with Solas, apart from what was immediately necessary to explain the mark’s removal—it must be met in those same shadows, and the time to bring her closest advisors into the fold is at hand.

For now, she ventures further into the fortress that has been her home these last few years, one final night of respite before she rides for the dungeons beneath Haven to ready for a fight she despairs of winning as much as losing.

The Great Hall has been stripped, all the heraldry proclaiming the organization as the resident of this keep gone from the walls, the throne she'd sat upon for judgements shipped off for future generations to pause and wonder at in some opulent Orlesian museum.

What they’ll say of her doesn’t matter, it never did, but she wonders how much they’ll get wrong, how the story will twist and turn until the truth of her is all but lost, like Ameridan, like...

Like Solas.

It’s a comfort, if a small one, to know that her human lifespan will spare her the fate of seeing the result of those twists for herself.

As if by instinct, Mal veers towards what had been Varric’s usual haunt, long since empty, and colder now, no warmth from the blazing hearth that stood behind him, blackened stone the only sign that it had ever seen flames at all. The door to the rotunda stands ajar in front of her, and she hesitates to push through it.

How many times has she darkened this doorway before now? Hundreds? Thousands? First, to seek knowledge, stories, if he cared to share them, and later, a friend, the foundation on which every other way she came to care for Solas was built. Even after he left, she still came here, a wisp of hope alive that he might surprise them all, might actually be there to share a moment with. She never believed he would be, but the possibility existed, and now...

Now, the door is ajar, and she knows what she won’t find on the other side of it.

Entering seems an exercise in futility, and she nearly turns away, but this, too, is why she’s here. It was never just about saying goodbye to Skyhold.

Mal steels herself with a measured breath, and reaches for the door with her right hand, the remnant of what had been a matched pair, shoulders squaring in preparation for, what? An empty room? 

There is light coming from within, and she follows the warm glow of it down the short hallway, torches burning low in a space that has been picked clean, everything that had been here to signify occupation long since taken out, the unfinished panel of a fresco standing lonely and forgotten by its artist, form without color to bring it to life.

She’s wondered for so long what it means to depict, for it isn’t like the other sections, there is nothing of her story staring back at her. Seeing it now, she can only feel chastened for the presumption that it was about her at all.

Perhaps he was trying to tell them, in his way, even then.

The thought brings a hollow sort of amusement.

“You evasive _ass_.” She shakes her head at art that cares nothing for her musings, impassive in its plaster on the wall.

“As titles go, that certainly is—colorful, to say the least.” 

The answer echoes from above, and her heart nearly stops at the shock of it. Her head jerks up, eyes searching until they settle on a familiar figure, though he seems even more out of place than he should, occupying space she’s long associated with Dorian.

“I could come up with something more colorful, if you like,” she says, though it falls well short of caustic, the bite in her words belied by the wistful turn of her mouth. “The artist should have a say, after all.”

“Should he?” He peers down, uncertainty in his eyes as gazes down.

“He could try—” she says, just as uncertain, his being here speaking volumes she doesn’t yet know how to parse. “—if he wants to.”

Solas disappears from the railing after one last, searching look. She sighs, closing her eyes in the moment of respite before he reaches her. There are too many voices in her head, each of them clamoring for something different in an endless loop, one she’s been hearing for weeks.

What this means, why he’s here—she wants to hope. She wants to, so much. She wants to believe that he can be swayed from his course, convinced to find another way, a peaceful way, because he isn’t wrong in wanting to salvage what has been lost, but how he plans to accomplish it, this world in exchange for one long dead… There are only two ways in which that scenario can end, and she wants neither.

All too soon, Solas is at her side, and for the first time, she doesn’t know what to say to him.

Thankfully, he shoulders that burden for her.

“Imagine, if you will, my surprise,” he says, fixing her with a curious look. “Arriving here and not being met with every weapon at the Inquisition’s disposal. Greeted instead as a friend, and left to wander of my own accord, as if nothing has changed.”

“The Inquisition is done. Why would they try to stop you?” She crosses her arms—or tries to, though she suspects the intent behind the gesture is not lost on him.

“That is one explanation.” He agrees. “But not the only one.”

“No, it isn’t.” She’ll go so far as to admit it. “Why are you here?”

He deflects her question with one of his own. “Why have you not informed your people of the danger they face?”

She can’t decide whether to be surprised or impressed at the gall he possesses, questioning her at a time like this. “What was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, our friend Solas is actually an ancient elvhen god, and means to destroy us all. Also, I _may_ have slept with him. Yes, I’m sure that would have gone over well.”

The corners of his mouth tick upward.“May have? I did not think it open to interpretation. If it is easier, I would suggest leaving that part out, but what is ultimately shared is up to you.”

“As if I _could_. Do you really think Dorian and Bull didn’t put two and two together? Sera might never forgive me, and she still thinks you’re just— _you_.” Mal sighs. This isn’t—she doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want an argument, let alone a battle. “Why are you here? And don’t tell me it’s to needle me about my tactical deficiencies. I don’t think you’re that generous of an adversary, even for me.”

“You are not my adversary, vhenan.” He moves closer, and already, it is nothing like the last time they met. There is nothing closed off in the way he moves, nothing held back. He is here, present, and doesn’t bother to appear otherwise.“But you are a complication.”

“So are you.” And he is, in more ways than she should reasonably allow him to be. “Does it really have to be this way?”

His answer does not come immediately, and he searches her eyes in the silence. “Do you think I would be here if that were the case?”

Her eyes widen. “That’s—not an answer.”

“Is it not?” His gaze softens considerably, kindled with warmth. There is sadness, too, ever present, but definable now in a way it hadn’t been, before. “What I have done to my people, it cannot stand. I will not _let_ it. But if there is another way… I wish to find it.” He reaches for her hand, and she could not stop her fingers from twining with his if she wanted to. “I don’t presume that you can forgive me, or that I am deserving of it if you can.”

A dangerous burst of hope splits open her defenses. “Solas—”

He places a finger to her lips. “Wait. Please.” At her nod, he continues. “What I must do, where I must search—our paths may never cross again, but I wanted to tell you. You have given me cause to look for something I did not consider worth finding.”

For a moment, she can’t speak. Can’t breathe. She hadn’t dared to hope for this. She couldn’t. Preparing for the inevitable seemed her only option, because hope would only break her in two. To lose him now, all because he can’t fathom anything beyond a solitary existence...

“Solas, you don’t have to do this by yourself.” She lets go of his hand, and reaches up to cup his jaw. “Let me go with you.”

A flash of surprise flits over his face at her touch, but he does not veer away from it. “You have a life, Mal. Friends. I would not take you away from that.”

“My friends will be my friends no matter where I go. Besides,” She reaches down to pull at the chain around her neck, dragging out the crystal she wears near to her heart. “We have ways of keeping in contact.”

He picks up the crystal and leans in to examine it, his brow quirking as he turns it about. “A gift from Dorian, I presume?”

She knows that look. “It’s elvhen magic, isn’t it?”

He nods, and very nearly smiles. “Please tell him I said as much.”

Mal huffs a quiet laugh. “Why don’t you tell him for me? I have packing to do—unless you’d like to help?”

He lets the crystal drop back into place, his brow furrowing as he considers her offer. “You would go with me? Even now?”

“Yes. I would.” She says, resolute. “For the first time in my life, I have choices. I’m not the Inquisitor anymore, and there is no Circle to hold me. No one gets to make decisions for me ever again, and that includes you.” Her hand finds his once more, fingers slipping in to fill the spaces between his. “ I know what I want. If you _don’t_ want me to come with you, now would be the time to say so.”

Solas looks at her as if she is some strange, incomprehensible thing.

“In what world,” he says, drawing her close to touch his forehead to hers, “Would I not want that?”

Her smile is small, but even so, it threatens to overwhelm her. “That’s not an answer.”

His smile is a perfect mirror of her own, warm and full of promise. “Yes, it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lasa em tua rosas’da’din, vhenan - Let me make you come, my heart
> 
> Elvhen courtesy of Project Elvhen here on Ao3 by FenXShiral


End file.
